


The Poltergeist of 221B

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Another John and Sherlock argument, Humour, M/M, Porn, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-19 15:14:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds that someone has been hacking into his blog and leaving comments...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Poltergeist of 221B

_**The Poltergeist of 221B [oneshot]**_  
 **Title** : The Poltergeist Of 221B  
 **Pairing** : Sherlock/John  
 **Rating** : NC-17  
 **Word Count** : ~7000  
 **Summary** : John finds that _someone_ has been hacking into his blog and leaving comments...  
 **Warnings** : Like all good situations, this one ends with sex.  
 **Beta** : The brilltastic (that is now a word) [](http://ebonystar.livejournal.com/profile)[**ebonystar**](http://ebonystar.livejournal.com/) , to whom I owe everything in the entire world. See below.  
 **Disclaimer** : I'm not Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, or Mark Godtiss or anyone remotely cool.  
 **Long A/N** : I know it sounds all clichéd, but literally this would never have happened without [](http://ebonystar.livejournal.com/profile)[**ebonystar**](http://ebonystar.livejournal.com/). She was the one who originally convinced me to carry on with this little niggling idea and turn it into something actually comprehensible; who helped me out an _insane_ amount with the middle bit; who allowed me to bounce ideas off her and never complained; who agreed to beta my stories knowing full well how impatient I am. Really, without her I never would have had the guts to attempt writing these characters. So... this one really is for you, Shezzer. She won't read this, but anyhow. It may have taken me months to get here, but I FINALLY DID. HUZZAH!

The stairs groan as he trudges up them, the toes of his boots thudding into the verticals of each step as he tries to haul his world-weary self up to the haven of 221B. The wind had assaulted him as soon as he’d stepped out of the taxi outside the Baker Street home he shares, along with a particularly malicious poltergeist that goes by the name of Sherlock Holmes. Somehow giving a name to the thing didn’t make it any less _annoying_. He’d managed to shut the gusts out with a slam of the door that had taken him two goes, but the effects are still showing on his face and in his hair, whipped into the directions of all four points of the compass. He doesn’t bother to adjust it, as his own deductive powers tell him that he’ll be plucking at it later anyway, with the argument that is scheduled to happen the moment he leaves the palm tree-walled hallway and steps inside his self-proclaimed ‘haven’. He’s beginning to wonder why he ever considered it that in the first place.

“Sherlock?”

For some reason he finds it necessary to precede his entrance with some speech, spoken into the varnished wood of the door. Partly to check if the man in question is in residence, partly to warn him that, now, so is John Watson. Doctor John Watson, who is now… well, still _technically_ a doctor, but no longer a practicing medical professional, to use the correct terminology. Sherlock would. John makes a mental note of this.

He shoulders the door open after turning the knob with the hand that’s not grasping his briefcase, and enters the flat to silence. His first thought contains expletives; the bugger’s gone and deduced the same thing he did and done a runner at the first opportunity. Or, more fairly, perhaps he’s just out. It is the middle of the day, after all. Sherlock could be out using his _massive intellect_ to solve crimes; catch serial killers; unite the world in cultural, social, and economic harmony. He could also be out just bothering Lestrade; a far more likely option, John notes. But, really, once the World’s Only Consulting Detective™ leaves the building, God’s the only one who quite knows where that man’s headed off to.

His next thought follows instinctively, and unwillingly; John slips his phone out of his right trouser pocket and thumbs the buttons. No new messages. If Sherlock’s out solving crimes, or whatever the bloody hell he’s up to, John would have probably been summoned out of work like the parent of a particularly disruptive child, dragged along to humour the detective’s warped sense of reality and excitement.

So, Sherlock Holmes, ladies and gentlemen, is in the building. And John instantly decides to break the only house rule implemented since the birth of the flat sharing agreement all those weeks ago: under no circumstances must he venture into Sherlock’s ‘personal quarters’, as he calls them. As it says on the door as John pushes it open and barges his way in without knocking.

Sherlock is lying on his bed in a state of half dress, arms positioned across his chest like an Egyptian mummy kept for centuries in a museum. His dark mahogany curls are largely engulfed by the pillow, or lying squashed under his skull, apart from one lying across his forehead, broken free from its ranks. His expression (eyebrows furrowed, almost together), doesn’t change upon John’s entrance, and his only signs of life appear when the doctor repeats his name again in a pressed tone and he jerks his head in the man’s direction, sending the mobile phone that had previously lain motionless on his forehead flying on to the floorboards with a painful thump.

“John.” is his first word. It’s then repeated twice: first as an interrogative, and then as an accusation. Within a second he’s vertical, and his hands spring to the buttons on his shirt: the burgundy garment that’s tucked neatly in to the waistband of his trousers but gaping open almost grotesquely. For a moment John hardly recognises this fumbling buffoon of a man caught off guard. He wonders if he’s the first person to ever view such a sight.

“Doctor Watson,” Sherlock intones once he’s smartened himself up and smoothed down his hair; John notes the absence of his Christian name as he watches the brunette gaze down at the floor, “I was under the assumption that you needed to be able to read to join the Armed Forces.”

John raises his eyebrows, his response coming out almost apologetically, betraying him. “Well, yes.”

“The sign. On the door. ‘No unauthorised access to personal quarters’. I trust it is at an appropriate height for your eye line.”

John, somehow, finds himself used to being spoken to like this. It seems almost natural, like his day just _wouldn’t be complete_ if Sherlock didn’t have a rant at him at least once. He sort of hates himself for it, but pushes it to the back of his mind. He can only afford to harbour one form of hatred this afternoon, and he wants the full force of it aimed directly at the space between Sherlock’s eyes.

“Well _that’s_ low, even for you.”

“As far as I can see, you seem to be the ‘low’ one in this situation.” The detective raises his head, but not up to its full incline, as if to demonstrate his point. He still manages to look the doctor directly in the eyes, and this time it’s John’s turn to defect his gaze to the floor. “But, nevertheless, _go on_ , say your little party piece. Tell me what’s of such a severe necessity that you saw fit to disregard the rules.”

Part of him doesn’t want to give Sherlock what he wants, just on principle. But he knows how childish that would be (even though being infantile seems to be his colleague’s specialty), and also stupid, as he’d been visualising pummelling the man the whole journey home. He isn’t about to forego that just to snatch back a little of his already beyond-all-repair pride. So he gives in.

Before he can even take in the breath he needs to begin, Sherlock is already there, interrupting him.

“It was an experiment, by the way.” He gestures towards the bed but John doesn’t look up; he’s not interested by the Sherlock-shaped indent left in the duvet, “I was… testing my responses to sudden shock. That’s why… the phone. On the forehead. Vibrates, makes a sound; vibrations are close to the brain and ears making them much more potent…” He tails off, leaving no explanation for his previous state of undress, but John doesn’t ask for one. All he can do is stand there and try and commit the whole of Sherlock’s recent speech to memory. He’s starting to wish he’d come in with a wire, or something, as this is a scenario he’ll definitely play to his grandkids in years to come. Gather round, kids, Grandpa’s going to tell you about the time he flustered Sherlock Holmes.

“I get you.” John replies, looking up, “ _Now_ can I get on with why I’m here?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow minutely, and he nods.

“Good. It’s about Sarah. She came and spoke to me tod- why are you rolling your eyes?”

“Oh, so your little arrangement is still going strong? That is delightful.”

“No!” John shouts, and surprises himself with the sudden volume. Sherlock barely flinches. “No, not any _more_! She came in to fire me.”

“ _Fire_ you?” If Sherlock’s facial muscles are capable of concern, then this is it, “Oh. That’s unfortunate.”

“Please, Sherlock, try not to injure yourself by caring so much. You think this is _unfortunate_? Do you want to know what she said?”

“Oh, please do enlighten me.” He says with a wave of his long fingers and bends to pick up the mobile lying dejectedly on the floor. The concern in his face that was glimpsed for a moment is gone. Even as John starts his account he’s fiddling with the buttons, doing something or other.

“She said that she didn’t feel comfortable working with me anymore, and that as she was technically my boss she thought that it would be more appropriate to let me go. So then I asked her why, what the hell had come over her all of a sudden, and- are you even listening, Sherlock?”

“Riveted.” He mutters, not looking up from his phone. John decides to press on anyway.

“And she said that she couldn’t bear to even look at me after ‘all those horrible things I said’. So I asked her what on Earth she was talking about and she just burst into tears! Right there in front of me!” Sherlock nods imperceptibly so he continues, “So after she left, I started to pack my things up and tried to figure out what the hell had just happened. I checked my sent messages but there were only ones to you, and then I thought I’d check my emails in case I’d sent her anything whilst half asleep or something… what?”

The tapping of fingers against keys stops, and the man previously making the noise seems to have been frozen on the spot, like the people in that wizard film Harry once made her brother sit through. Sherlock stands, staring over at the scientific apparatus on his desk across the other side of the room. He doesn’t move even after John uses his name, so the doctor bumbles on.

“I saw that I’d had some new comments on my blog, so I went to check them out. And that was when I noticed,” He pauses, trying to build the tension that’ll be lost on his colleague anyway, “that _someone else_ had been logging in to my blog. As me.”

For all his whims and ways, there are some things about Sherlock Holmes that are as transparent as the glass in his bedroom window. Still slightly murky, with a grime that is never quite going to come off even after prolonged scrubbing, but clear enough to see through if you ever took the time to look. John can see him processing the various outcomes of his reaction; hell, he could even go as far as to hypothesise about what forks in the road the great detective is thinking of taking.

He could go in apologetically, but there a problem already presents itself: John’s fists are clenched, therefore even an idiot could work out that he’s already too riled to accept anything less than a grovel on two knees. He’s also crazy to think that Sherlock Holmes is ever going to give him that. Sherlock _could_ insist that he has no idea what on Earth is being discussed, therefore removing any implication in the matter. Forming an alibi to pacify his companion would hardly be difficult, but there’s still a scrap of morality lying dormant somewhere in the detective that stops him from being able to lie to John. It is most debilitating, and rather quite infuriating. So, faced with the realisation that he is, in fact, about to account for his blinding wrongness (a new experience neither of them feel quite prepared for), Sherlock sees no other way but to go for the most self-satisfying option. To go down in a ‘blaze of glory’, as the saying goes.

“Belatedly I realise I should have done something with your emails also. You probably have the same inane password for those, too.”

John looks at him, first blank at the shock of his prediction actually being correct. Then all of his astounded self-gratification dissipates, and all he can experience is pure, no-nonsense _fury_. He doesn’t bother with any proclamations of surprise, as he’s fully aware both of the men know just how unsurprising this really is. Best not to waste time, and just get down to the questions.

“…Why? Why the _hell_ did you do it?”

“Bored.”

“Sherlock, if this is some big ploy to just piss me off for your own entertainment, then I swear to God you will regret it. I still have my cane somewhere in this house and I will cheerfully thrash you with it-”

There’s a momentary flash of _something_ in Sherlock’s eyes; astonishment or something quite the opposite that John does not even want to think about right now. “Fine, if you must know, Sarah is no good. I do not like her.”

“You’re _jealous_?”

He snorts, “Hardly likely, John. We both know there is no competition.” His smirk at John returns a death glare (Doctor Watson’s speciality; Sherlock has a tally chart under his bed), so he averts his gaze to the view outside his murky window, “I followed her home one evening. Caught a glimpse of her living room and I must say, it was a frightening sight.”

John’s shoulders stiffen; he doesn’t take his eyes off Sherlock’s dark brown curls, “How so?”

“I am most certain she is a psychopath.”

“…And you’re not?”

“High funct-”

“Yes okay I know! There’s a difference. You’ve said.” His eyebrows dig deeper down towards the bridge of his nose, “But how could you possibly know that from just looking into her lounge? And- Sherlock, I don’t know why we are even discussing this. Sarah is not a psychopath!”

Sherlock spins around with a melodramatic swish of his head, “Do you know her?”

“I guess that depends on which sense of the word you mean.”

“Well?”

“I suppose so. I mean we have been _going out_.”

“Have you ever gone back to her house?”

“Sherlock! That’s hardly-”

“Have you?”

“…No. But-”

“Then you wouldn’t have seen the evidence. She’s clever, _clever_ , hiding it from you all this time.”

“What? What sort of _evidence_?”

“I told you: evidence. String of lovers; body parts in jars; ammunition everywhere…”

“Sherlock, that sounds like _you_.”

It’s then that the detective’s eyes light up with the all-too-familiar glint that follows a sudden realisation. John groans, pre-empting the psychoanalysis destined to materialise, and Sherlock raises his right hand to his chin, tugging the taut skin downwards.

“Interesting. You seem to have no problem with these aversive traits at all.”

John teams his next speech with smiling irritation, another of his specialities: “That’s because I know Sarah _isn’t_ a psychopath.”

“And neither am I. But when I mentioned them, your face showed no traces of disgust. A _normal_ person,” He stresses the word with a slightly twisted grin, “would at least be repulsed.”

“That’s because I’m used to- Sherlock, what are you doing. What are you trying to say, like _I’m_ the weird one here?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Well, that’s just great. You’re the one who hacked into my blog to send abusive messages to my girlfriend-”

“Ex-girlfriend.”

“ _To my girlfriend_ , and you’re calling me weird? Yes, this makes perfect sense. I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

In all his frustration, John fails to notice that Sherlock had been taking small, but calculated, steps towards him with every word he had spoken. The two are now in uncomfortably close proximity; John can see the flecks in Sherlock’s pale green irises. Being so close to the man unnerves him, for Sherlock has that unsettling habit of staring at you in such a way that you feel six years old, two foot tall, naked… or whichever seems the most demoralising. John can’t quite make his mind up about which one he prefers; his rage is making him feel strange, somehow, like he hasn’t eaten for days. It is a hungry aching that had built up gradually from the moment he stepped through Sherlock’s door. Perhaps seeing the man who seemed to repel all forms of nourishment had reminded him of his own necessity to eat.

“Oh, but we are.” The man in question replies with a self-satisfied coolness that only Sherlock Holmes could pull off, “We’ve been on the same page since the day we met, yet you decide to try and ignore it. What _is_ truly _weird_ , though, is just why you went and got a girlfriend when you’re so utterly in love with me.”

John feels quite convinced that he’s having an out of body experience. Or he’s dreaming. Or that he’s just not there, in Sherlock’s room, having this conversation. Oh, God, of course only he would be so messed up to dream this sort of stuff. He’d read about dream meanings on the Internet somewhere… someone proclaiming their love for you, wasn’t that about an inbuilt desire for intimacy or something? But it hadn’t said anything about someone proclaiming _your_ love for _them_. Surely that just meant the person was an arrogant sod.

John emerges from his dream/out of body experience/nightmare, spluttering like he’s just been forced to down hydrochloric acid, “Me? I’m in love with _you_? With you? Me, in love with _you_?”

“The gentleman doth protest too much, methinks.”

Oh, so now he’s even closer than before. John half wonders if the man’s a ghost, but is wary of what reaction him trying to wave a hand through his torso will generate. Sherlock’s floorboards are bare, and creaky, and the detective’s shoes are expensive. There’s no way there _can’t_ be a noise when he moves.

John takes a step back, holding up his arms in a lame attempt at a shield. He doesn’t know why he bothers; Sherlock will probably just float through his defences anyway. “…And now you’re quoting Shakespeare. You’re actually quoting Shakespeare.”

The brunette shoots him a look to rival the John Glare™, “Of course I’m quoting Shakespeare. Why wouldn’t I be quoting Shakespeare? Do you have a problem with me quoting Shakespeare?”

“No, no, of course not. What I _do_ have a problem with, however, is how the hell you managed to come to that conclusion.”

“What conclusion?”

“That I love you.”

Sherlock’s face says all that a pointed comment could not.

“…Shit. No. Christ. _You know what I mean_!”

“Yes, John, I do.” He mutters, his voice dropping at least two tones. He takes another step forward, and the doctor copies him inversely. Soon enough the pair are going to reach the wall with the stuffed deer head, and John doesn’t really fancy headbutting that certain piece of décor, no thank you. He also doesn’t particularly want to contemplate what would happen if, by a certain miracle of God, he manages to avoid the mounted deer whilst manoeuvring backwards and instead retreats into the Morris-imitation wallpaper. It’s a thought that concerns and excites him vaguely (for reasons he can’t and doesn’t want to understand) in equal measure.

“So how did you know?”

“ _Know_?”

The ‘cheerful irritation’ look gets another outing, “Come to that conclusion. For God’s sake Sherlock, stop doing that. It’s a figure of speech.”

“Of course it is. Well, it took an exceedingly large amount of my _massive intellect_.” The detective almost drawls, the grin on his face taking on a shade of sin. He takes another step forward, and John forgets to.

“Yes, that’s great, but how can you tell?”

“John, you’re giving yourself away frightfully. By this.”

In the briefest of moments the space between them is vanquished. Sherlock’s hands slide along John’s jawbone and then tense, pulling their lips together in a rough, but somehow fluid motion. John forgets his day, forgets Sarah, forgets the stupid stinking job he’s just been fired from. The throbbing in his ears (now also making an appearance in his groin) seems to chant the detective’s name: _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock_. And with that, he surrenders himself over to the rapidly strengthening pull of his arousal.

There’s a thud as his back meets the wall, followed by two softer pads that indicate Sherlock’s palms on the wallpaper either side of his head. Then there’s pressure, pressure that almost whites out his vision because Christ, he’s never been this close to Sherlock Holmes and why the hell haven’t they done this before.

“Fuck.” The word trips out of his mouth before he can catch it; Sherlock’s eyes dart downwards and then reaffix themselves on John’s own with a look that drips, encapsulates, _promises_ sex.

“This partnership works much better, John…” He almost gasps, and the sound shoots straight to his companion’s crotch. He’s never heard Sherlock so impossibly… undone. “…If you take my word as Gospel.”

When Sherlock’s next utterance is a command to touch him, John doesn’t hesitate for a moment. Perhaps if he were looking on at the situation as a mere observer he’d note something about his sudden change of attitude, use a well-worn idiom involving love, hate and the thin line between them. If he were actually having an out of body experience he’d probably laugh at himself and his fickleness; wait, weren’t you furious at him a second ago? God, John, you used to be so determined and resolute, what happened?

Sherlock Holmes happened.

Well it seems that both Sherlock and Shakespeare said it best with the whole ‘protesting’ thing. Not that John is protesting now, not when he’s sliding hands in between their bodies and grasping at the gentle protrusion of the detective’s hipbones. His thumbs begin to rub circles around them as Sherlock’s lips crash against his own again; it’s somehow even more forceful, needing, lustful – it almost _hurts_ , really, but it’s an abstract sort of pain that lends itself more to pleasure. John’s eyes flare wide as the kisses move to his neck with flashes of teeth and tongue and he can’t stop his fingers from instinctively sinking into the skin and fabric they were ghosting.

He makes a move to remove Sherlock’s shirt; he gets as far as pulling it out of the waistband of the man’s tight trousers before he’s halted by a sudden new development. As John’s hands jerk out of his control Sherlock chuckles once and closes his fingers together slightly. The fingers on the hand he’s got pressed up against John’s trousers.

“Point proven…” Sherlock mutters as he’s treated to a bucking against him for his efforts. Really, this is the point of no return. Up to now retreat had been an option; it’d have been tough to fabricate a reason for their bizarre behaviour but Sherlock would have been able to come up with one, and things would’ve been awkward for a couple of weeks, months, _years_ , but they’d have managed. They could have passed it off as an error of judgement and simply not returned to the subject ever again. But now… now as Sherlock is beginning to squeeze and John is beginning to moan, it’s getting more and more difficult for them to pass this off as anything else but what it is. And besides, neither of them want to begin to try and explain away the fact they’re both overtly and unashamedly hard.

So, there’s one course of action, and John’s determination switches to the new singular outcome.

God, he’s just a walking, talking paradox, isn’t he?

“You might want to try the buttons.” Sherlock murmurs with unbecoming patience, like he’s guiding John rather than ordering him. Like for once – shock, horror! – he’s actually acknowledging the inexperience of another person instead of bulldozing it. John knows this probably won’t last long so he better take this gentle prod before it turns into a shove. Sherlock’s tolerance of other people is like an eclipse: incredibly infrequent, and astounding to behold.

So John starts on the shirt buttons. An interesting idea in theory, but in his haste he’s forgotten to factor in his current physical state and the fact that Sherlock is, well, _fondling_ him; somehow with those variables deteriorating and increasing respectively his hands are unable to deal with the dexterity necessary for such a job. He tries, though, and he’s greeted by laughter as his fingers slip away time and time again from the tiny burgundy orbs obviously put on the Earth to torment him. As was Sherlock Holmes, who seems to be as much a paradox as John finds himself to be. John had expected nothing less than a punch in the face for his fumbling rather than a throaty chuckle… but it’s then that he realises that, for God’s sake, the man’s doing it – squeezing his bloody… _crotch_ – on purpose.

There’s no escape, is there? Really. Even in foreplay Sherlock Holmes wants to torment him.

The tormenting changes tack a little as Sherlock’s fingers shift and slide around the buttons of John’s flies, manipulating them with ease and sliding them free from the denim. He grabs the edges of the fabric and tugs once; the action jolts John slightly in more ways than one.

“Shirt, if possible.” Sherlock purrs and John realises he’s been suspending his fingers in mid air for far too long when there are things to be done. Like the removal of Sherlock’s shirt, for instance. The detective removes his hands from John’s lower body, which at first seems wholly unfair but then is discovered as essentially being practical; in order for John’s motor functions to actually work it’s probably best to halt external stimulation, even if only momentarily.

The shirt goes surprisingly swiftly. Both men gaze up at each other briefly; Sherlock’s eyebrows raise as if to say: _Impressive_.

“You know I can be… I can…” John begins but Sherlock’s mouth is now back at his neck, muttering negatives and commands to just _stop talking, John, be quiet_ , into the taut skin there, “I can… Bed.”

“Bed.” Sherlock concurs and dissents simultaneously, “Jumper first.”

John thinks that’s probably the worst thing for Sherlock to have said at that point in time. Not because it’s indicating that he wants him stripped, no, that’s a welcome prospect. But the word ‘jumper’ triggers a realisation, a curse, a frustration that he decided to wear a _jumper_ today. ‘Jumper’ equates an almighty faff, and they’re going to have to pause so he can get his arms out of the sleeves and oh for _God’s sake_ , why can’t it just evaporate off? John’s body temperature feels high enough anyway. His hands protest, moving to the waistband of Sherlock’s fitted trousers, and his feet rebel and try to shuffle forwards. Sherlock makes a noise of irritation through his nose and shoves John against the wall again; it hinders their progress and shuts John up spectacularly. John raises his arms without another word.

“Your enthusiasm is endearing.”

“Shut u-” John retorts but is cut off by a mouth full of jumper. He knows this isn’t an accident, and he’d probably be laughing if his mind weren’t short-circuiting, bubbling down to one single fact, preparing to explode if things don’t happen right this instant. Sherlock seems to deduce this and is swift with the jumper removal. It’s still a bitch, though; every second of stillness is bringing John closer and closer to combustion. The shirt goes shortly after, followed by an awkward backwards walk (sort of like a half-naked, emotionally charged three-legged race) towards the bed and finally a thump of Sherlock’s arse landing on the mattress. John moves to join him but is stilled by warm palms on his chest.

 _Oh, for God’s sake._

“No, John, let’s keep God out of this.” Sherlock mutters, looking upwards to catch John’s eye. The height reversal is rather charming. “You stay standing, just for the moment. _Just for the moment_.” He adds in reply to the death look on John’s face, leaning back against the duvet with his elbows propping him up, “ _Now_ you can remove my trousers.”

John’s so turned on right now he’d probably remove them with his _teeth_ if Sherlock asked him to. Actually, that’s not a half bad idea. The flash of fire in Sherlock’s eyes indicates that they’re probably on the same wavelength; the quirk of his left eyebrow is an unadulterated dare – can he hold on long enough? It’d certainly take longer, but would it be worth the extra stalling? Sherlock shifts his hips upwards and John’s cock decides for him: _screw_ waiting, they’ll save it for next time. If there’s a next time.

Of course there’s going to be a next time. He’s bloody in love with the man.

God damn.

Luckily the button and zip on Sherlock’s trousers don’t trouble him too much; his hands are steady and soon there’s fabric being shimmied down thighs and Sherlock is arching upwards to make the movement easier. Or perhaps he’s thrusting his crotch into John’s face on purpose to drive him even more insane. That’s probably it. Whatever the motive, it aids the process and Sherlock lets out a murmur of something appreciative once his trousers are pooled round his ankles and he kicks them away with a couple of deft shakes. Then he shuffles back on the bed – not quite so deftly, John notes with a smile; for once it’s nice to see Sherlock looking at least _verging_ on ungainly – and positions himself so he’s lengthways along it with his elbows on the pillow, legs spread gently but indecently.

It’s at this point that the inevitable happens: John freezes. Yes, so maybe he’s harder than he’s ever been and God, right now all he wants is some _release_ , but there’s the small matter of this being sex with Sherlock rather than Sarah and John’s never actually thought about what he’d do if he were ever in this position. Or Sherlock was spread out in front of him in _that_ position, looking entirely fuckable and daunting at the same time. It’s never really crossed his mind before now, and maybe it should have. It’d certainly be less embarrassing.

“You may as well make yourself useful if you’re just going to _stand there_.” Sherlock answers the unspoken question John’s brain is currently yelling, “Trousers off, if you please.”

So John does just that; his already loosened jeans ease off without any particular difficulty, and after a sharp kick that flings the denim into an un-hoovered corner of floor he finds himself similarly attired to the man reclining on the mattress in front of him. He decides that this is something else he’ll make a mental note of for later: the sight of Sherlock, stark bollock naked except for those tiny shorts that aren’t boxers, really, they’re more like a serviette preserving the man’s modesty. His eyes map the gentle curves and protrusions of the detective’s body, the milky whiteness of his skin, the contrast of the dark curls sprouting from his scalp and chest. He’d probably be able to draw the image from memory if he had any talent in that area at all; he has a sudden flashback to _Titanic_ and lets out a laugh despite himself.

Sherlock’s expression speaks the “Excuse me?” that doesn’t deserve sound.

“Nothing, nothing…”

“How reassuring that you find me amusing. But I’d prefer you put your mouth to better use.”

John’s brain explodes from the images. Sherlock’s face, before a mask of sarcasm and sighs, splits into a genuine smile as he shakes his head.

“Just kiss me, John.”

John is more than happy to oblige him.

As their bodies slide together, intertwine, every other sensation ever previously experienced seems inferior. He’s pretty certain that nothing’s ever going to be better than the feeling of exposed skin on skin: the softer, lesser-seen patches only revealed in intimacy. He’s not a soppy man, John Watson, serving Queen and Country kind of shocks that from you, but there’s a closeness in the palpation that makes his heart rate jump up a couple of beats per minute. It’s bizarrely arousing and relaxing simultaneously, and John doesn’t know how that’s even possible but he’d quite like it to stay that way, thank you very much.

By the sound of it, Sherlock’s thoughts have gone down the same path too. The kisses may be soft and slow but the moans are ragged and raw, and there’s intent as well as languor in the sweeps of his tongue. John barely notices the fingers snaking down his back and under the elastic of his boxers; he’s still too preoccupied with what’s going on upstairs to cotton on to any developments with the textile downstairs. It’s only when Sherlock arches up and he feels the shift of cloth on his bare skin that he realises that Sherlock’s got the better of him once again.

“How did you…?”

He’s pulled back down to press his lips against the smug smirk of the Consulting Detective before he can even form the curses in his brain. Not that John’s really complaining, though; only an idiot would go into any sort of sexual activity with Sherlock Holmes thinking that they’ll ever have the upper hand, and besides, he kind of likes it. He’ll blame the Army for that one.

Next thing he knows, there are two pairs of boxers lying on Sherlock Holmes’ bedroom floor. How the hell they got there John probably isn’t ever going to know, or remotely care because Oh God what is happening, just what. There are hands manipulating him into unfamiliar positions; fingers on his neck, pushing, pressing them closer together if they can _get_ any closer; thighs shifting against thighs; shivers rippling along his back like current through a wire. John feels electric. When Sherlock’s hand travels down to the dip of his lower back and John realises he’s shaking, Sherlock Holmes is _shaking_ , the thoughts and implications white out his brain.

Well, not completely. He’s still lucid enough to feel the friction as Sherlock’s hand pushes him upwards and they brush against one another… John raises his head and blue-grey eyes stare back, drenched in the black of pupils blown wide. There’s something of a loose smirk on Sherlock’s lips, teetering on the edge between mischief and loss of control. Then the unspoken question: _Are you ready_?

 _I was born ready_ , John thinks, and he’s rather glad he didn’t say it out loud.

Sherlock smothers his own chuckles with another kiss. Then the mirth is replaced by something less jovial, but no less marvellous. It’s yet another shift in atmosphere; how many have there been since this whole thing started? Sherlock’s been caring, and authoritarian, and amused, and irritated, and infuriating, and an almighty contradiction in every conceivable way, it seems. John begins to wonder if the man’s mental stability goes past sociopathic and into bipolar, but then the thought degenerates into the psychological embodiment of a keyboard slam because Sherlock’s thrusting up against him, and _fuck_.

John’s had sex with a fair few people. It’s nothing particularly to boast about – he’s no _Casanova_ – but he knows his way around the human body and not just because he had to earn the letters suffixing his name. He considers himself… experienced, and enough so to distinguish between something he’s going to regret or relive the morning after. He’s not anal enough to _rank_ them, but if he were about to think about bar charts in the middle of sex (god forbid Sherlock is), this would be off the damn sheet of squared paper. Luckily for both of them John’s not even capable of thinking _words_ , let alone _bar graphs_ , and instead focuses his entire existence down to reciprocating the motion and the steady rocking rhythm they’ve settled into without much communication apart from a few probing hands and searching fingertips.

There’s silence apart from the percussive thudding of their bodies together until Sherlock gasps and John’s body immediately responds with the physical incarnation of _Christ, that’s the most arousing thing I’ve ever heard_. His hands tighten around Sherlock’s shoulders, and the detective’s thighs tighten around his own. John’s overcome by an urge to kiss him, but the _bloody, stupid, bastard_ height difference forces him to make do with crushing his lips against the hollow at the bottom of Sherlock’s neck instead. Sherlock gasps again, and they repeat the motion. Over and over and over again, until there’s white noise mingling with their gasps and breathless swearwords and incantations of each other’s names, until John feels like they might just melt together or something, and wouldn’t that be bloody fantastic. Sherlock’s hands grip, and scratch, and pull, and sink into skin with a possessiveness that sends John’s body temperature up another couple of degrees. And all the while there’s friction, _God_ , there’s the _friction_.

The air is thick with heat and arousal when he cries out and convulses, whiteness spilling out onto his vision and Sherlock’s chest. His pulse is still hammering in his head:

 _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock_.

“John!”

There’s a jerking of hips, and teeth sink around Sherlock’s collarbone as the great detective finally loses control.

It takes them both at least five minutes for their breathing to slow and deepen. There’s silence, and almost unbearable body heat but it’s all okay, _it’s all fine_ , it’s a lingering reminder of what they just did, and wasn’t that fucking incredible. Five minutes for breathing, five to regain most body functions, five to return to full mental capacity. Or at least for John – Sherlock’s probably impervious to post-coital exhaustion but he’s not saying anything so perhaps he’s faking it.

The hand on his back tightens in response to John’s anxieties; for once he’s actually quite glad for Sherlock’s freaky mind-reading capabilities. It also somehow feels… he doesn’t know. God damn, give him some time to catch up; he’s knackered.

After another couple of minutes John exhales into Sherlock’s chest, and the sound speaks for the both of them. It’s contentment, relief and languid excitement all in one faint rush of air. His eyes close as he breathes in Sherlock’s cool, clean scent, only slightly tainted with the faint odour of fornication. John can’t think of anything at all that smells, has smelt, or will smell better than this.

It’s then he thinks of Sarah, and his eyes snap open. Sherlock, somehow able to detect the slightest of movements, lets out a growl that rumbles through his throat and chest with its deep bass.

“No, John.” The words are sleepy, lacklustre, and John almost doesn’t understand them. Perhaps Sherlock isn’t as superhuman as he previously thought. Interesting.

“I should at least say sorry.”

“No… I don’t think that will be necessary.”

The doctor rotates his head across Sherlock’s chest; he’s greeted with the underside of the man’s prominent jaw. For a moment all John can think of is the softness of the skin that must be under there, and how it’d feel tugged between his teeth. Then he remembers Sarah, and the fantasy vanishes with an almost audible pop. It takes him a moment to remember why he ever changed position at all.

“How come?”

“She’s already…” Sherlock yawns. _Yawns_. John begins to wonder if _this_ time he’s dreaming. “…been fully informed.”

“Mmmm?”

A sigh shakes Sherlock’s form, jostling John’s head in an unspoken command. But John’s already given up too much of his dignity today to acquiesce to this demand. There’s only so much mild humiliation a man can subject himself to in one day and still feel, well, like a man. Sherlock knows this, but he’ll be damned if he has to get up from… _comfy_.

“My phone. On the desk.”

“No…”

“Yes.”

“Sherlock…”

“On the desk. Phone.”

With a groan and an eye-roll that informs the detective that this doctor’s not above being childish and overly dramatic either, John extends his arm in the direction of the desk and swipes, once. Surprisingly, the desk is still on the other side of the room, and his hand is still empty. He tries again, and this time the momentum sends his face sliding towards the bare floorboards. Sherlock merely reclines back and watches as his companion engages himself with a battle against gravity that involves clutching at the duvet, the mattress, the wood of the bed frame, and eventually bracing himself against the floor as his body quickly follows suit and slips down with him.

Oh, so it seems there’s more humiliation on the cards for John Watson. How fun.

Ignoring his obvious nakedness and sprawled-in-a-heap-on-the-floor-ness, John picks himself up and, cursing Isaac Newton, swipes Sherlock’s phone off the desk with a accomplishment that barely counteracts the mortification it took him to get there. Before the chills start to spread he’s back under the duvet and under the protecting arm of the World’s Only Consulting Detective™. Like John needs protecting, really, but he kind of enjoys it.

“Sent messages.” The detective croons; the recent stunt has shocked most of the lethargy out of his voice. John is more than happy to complete the command now his curiosity is propelling him. It takes him two goes to reach the menu; he cycles through half of Sherlock’s contacts before he works out where the back buttons are. All this time he’s aware of the man over his shoulder growing slowly more agitated as the debacle continues, and, yes, okay, maybe he’s exacerbating his fluffing up on purpose just to see how this provokes him.

Sherlock lasts a minute. John’s working his way out of ‘Downloaded Images’ (of which Sherlock has none, he’s slightly relieved to discover) when he finds the mobile being plucked out of his grasp and assaulted by a barrage of tiny finger taps. Before John can blink it’s back in his eye line again, and a text is waiting for him.

 _‘Your ex-boyfriend is gay. Have a nice day. SH’_

Somehow, he’s astounded by the civility. And in the way that, in two relatively brusque sentences, Sherlock Holmes has managed to explain away the lengthy events of the afternoon. It’s rather quite marvellous.

Okay, he’s definitely going mad.

Suddenly, John’s eyes process the numbers sneaked into the top right hand corner, “You sent this… thirty-five minutes ago?”

He feels an arm tighten around his shoulder, and realises that this is _affection_. He’ll make a note of this for the future.

“I know real anger when I see it.”

\--


End file.
